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"So, Donald Trump is going to be staying with us."

I'm genuinely surprised, because, if it's possible for anyone in this house to loathe the degraded human wreckage that is the current American president more than I do, it would be my wife. And yet, apparently, she's been talking to him, and he's going to pop round for a visit, and stay overnight.

"I guess he could stay in the addition," I say. We built an addition a few years ago, a multi-purpose room with its own lavatory. Guests stay there.

We're sitting around on the night the American president is due. The night moves along, and we have to admit he's probably cancelled. We retire to our bed, strangely disappointed. I've never met an American president (though I met Justin Trudeau once, when he was a only a member of parliament). It would be an experience to meet one, even Drumpf.

We hear some commotion on the street. I part the blinds and look out the front window. "There's a limo the length of a block," I say. We rush down the stairs. We're wearing these charmingly garish tees, mates of one I owned in my twenties, a Liquid Blue John Connell tie-dyed V with the image of ocean life.

Trump enters. There's a small detachment of security people. No Melania, or other collaborators. He looks about as one might expect, the long coat and tie and the faux self-assured face, pudgy with entitlement. I put out my hand-- why couldn't it have been Obama? Heck, I'd take Bill Clinton or Ronald Reagan-- but my wife interrupts. One of the security guys has injured himself on the front porch. "We need one of those medical kits. From the bottom of the closet."

There's a strange closet to my left and, sure enough, medical kits at the bottom. I hand one out the door.

I also have another Liquid Blue tie-dye for Forty-five. I'm about to hand it to him when I awake.

It's raining. My wife isn't around, but I have to tell her about my dream. I find her on the back porch, reading and watching the storm.

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